A Game Of
by Mariagoner
Summary: Seduction. Solidorstyle. LarsaPenelo. Set five years after the end of the game. Part of the Uses of Enchantment cycle.


God help me, here's another one down and there's just three more fics to go before The Uses of Enchantment is _over_. I can't be the only one looking forward to that, yes?

In any case, this is inspired by and thus for the lovely **Adore184 **(though I feel almost too shy to say why!) and for the charming **Myaru **(happy upcoming birthday!) And comments, corrections and criticism are, as always, completely welcome and loved. After all, a little encouragement never fails to add a bit of inspiration... and as this is winding up, I could use just that. ;)

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**Title: A Game Of**

**Fandom: Final Fantasy XII**

**Series: The Uses of Enchantment**

**Characters/Pairings: Larsa/Penelo**

**Rating: PG-13**

**Summary: Seduction. Solidor-style.**

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"Did you know," Larsa begins almost conversationally, "that there's a school of thought that says that playing at life is not unlike indulging in a game of chess?"

There are times, Penelo knows, that visiting Archades and her dear friend, the emperor of the entire joint, isn't really in her best interests. She's been doing it since she was sixteen years old and still giddy off the high of her first adventure and, in many ways, she's still glad of that fact. Archadia has always struck her as lovely, if still a bit alien and being here is always a nice change from the frequently dirty, exhausting and ethically dubious life of a sky pirate. Whenever she's here, she's always sure of being welcome and being allowed access to damn near anything she wants, even if that Judge Zargabaath _did_ tend to tut a great deal whenever she went near the armory again. And hell, if nothing else, the food she gets here is far better than any of the swill she and Vaan took turns trying to feed each other in mad desperation when their emergency funds ran out.

But when Larsa does things like this--

"In fact," he murmurs softly, lashes lifting slightly to bring his eyes to hers, "there are even those that say that anyone who plays a fair game of chess could well rule the world themselves."

--Penelo thinks that maybe it's getting almost too dangerous to try keeping up with a friend grown so old and so bold and so very… so very _risky_ right here. And when Larsa leans over and lightly lets his ungloved hand rest around rough fingers poised around a piece she hasn't quite figured how to use, all Penelo can do is pause and try not to swallow too loudly and continue on in an effort to break the tension.

"And just how," she asks as brightly and as mischievously as she dares, "do these schools of thought _justify_ such _elaborate_ language?"

He smiles but doesn't laugh and there's a small dimple on his right cheek when he does that. Penelo's quite sure that's a new development. And even if it isn't, she knows she's never noticed it before. After all, before this year-- month-- week-- day-- _moment_-- she's never really looked and him and thought that, perhaps--

"They justify it," he continues (and Penelo can only be _grateful_ for that interpretation) "through a few chain links of interesting reasoning. Would you care to hear of them?"

"I…" she starts and licks her lips, only realizing seconds too late that perhaps that wasn't the wisest choice when his eyes dart down to her mouth, to the minute wetness left by her tongue, the slight pout she makes whenever she goes through the motion. She hopes he doesn't think--

"Do you," he says softly. It's not a question.

And if he had been older and not-- not someone she had known as a little boy, someone she had met when he was so young and inexperienced, someone she had been saved by and saved in turn, and had held as all his world was breaking away as a boy-- if he hadn't been any and all of that, Penelo might have been tempted to demonstrate just _why_ she was currently known as one of the most dangerous lady sky pirates in the land.

If he hadn't been any and all of that-- and Penelo could only suck in her lower lip _again_ at the memories and watch his eyes narrow with great care-- she could have done any number of things to not merely capture but _ensnare_ his attention. She could have bitten her lip hard or tossed back her yellow hair, lowered her eyes demurely or candidly asked what he wanted… or simply leaned over to let him get a glimpse of the interesting new henna tattoos she had commissioned on the crests of her breasts…

If he hadn't been-- and Penelo clung to the image of the adorable little boots that he had once worn in his first incarnation with mad tenacity-- if he hadn't been a child when she had first known him, she might have been willing and tempted to seduce the holy living _esper_ out of him right there.

But she isn't. She can't be. And she knows that she shouldn't-- she mustn't--

She shouldn't take advantage of him. Not when he'd been so young when he had met her, not when she must have seduced him already without even willing it. He didn't really want _her_-- he just wanted the _idea_ of her, of the image of her he had carried around for years and years. And surely, surely he had no idea what he was trying to do here. Emperor or not, Larsa was just a boy of seventeen with the shadow of stubble on his new adam's apple and mad thoughts racing through his mind constantly and knots he couldn't quite unravel beneath his skin and skull and legs. Surely he didn't understand just what he wanted from her here… or just what he'd have to do to receive it.

So in the end, all she can do is lower her eyes and let him take… whatever _this_ was from there on in.

"I do," she murmurs and he pauses to flash his dimple at her again. It was funny how it had apparently escaped her attention before… only to capture it so thoroughly that all she could do at present was want to use her only didn't it escape her attention before, goddamn _tongue_ on it--

His smooth alto afterwards comes across as a welcome distraction.

"They say life is like a chess board," he murmurs, "because all those in the world correspond to at least one of the pieces moved within it. Some are like pawns who live their simple lives toiling for their superiors and are among the first to be sacrificed in any great conflict. Several are more similar to bishops and rooks, who have power but are straightforward and predictable in their ways of using it. A rare few are like knights and a careful man never takes his eyes off them, lest he be caught by surprise by their unanticipated actions. An even rarer number are queens and kings, either too powerful to be deployed recklessly or too important to be used for menial tasks. And the very best of the best--"

"And I suppose those very best," Penelo interrupts dryly, "are meant to be the chess masters, moving all the pieces on the board along just because of who spawned them?"

He doesn't smile, merely looks at her with something not wholly unlike appreciation. And in that span of time, she realizes that as much as his dimple distracts her, the long line of dark lashes against pale, hollowed out cheeks somehow manages to be even _more_ hazardous.

"True enough, Penelo, true enough. The men most fond of these metaphors always envision themselves as divinely set on such a task. But the truth is…"

And there suddenly are his lips against the lobe of her ear and his fingers against her hip; and he's always been fast but never _this_ fast, this unpredictable or this swift. And Penelo would protest but she doesn't-- she can't-- he's too close and it'd raise too many questions if she just pushed him away and there are his _feelings_ to consider, she can't hurt him any more than life already has--

"The truth is that life isn't really like a game of chess at all."

If she moves just an inch, her lips would finally be touching his. And Penelo knows that after this is over and she is home, safe in her sky ship's bunk, she'll think of this and some small and terrible part of her will curse herself for not taking advantage of him.

But he's only seventeen and she can't-- she shouldn't-- she _won't_ let herself do this. So she withdraws and ignores his sharply indrawn breath and can just barely turn her face away lest her mouth desperately crush his.

"But Larsa," she says (and she's proud of the fact that her voice doesn't even _shake_), "didn't you just spend quite a bit of time telling me why that's true? And wouldn't you be the first to agree that's honestly just the case?'

His mouth curls up into that sly smile again-- that damn dimple, _again_-- and when he next speaks, he moves against her, breathing out words against her neck. It takes all of her and some more left over not to turn either towards or away from him.

"I lied, Penelo. Politicans of my caliber do it rather frequently. It's in the nature of our game. Because politics isn't really anything like a game of chess… unless you happen to believe that life is indeed kind enough hand you opponents and gambits that happen regularly and predictably."

And God help her but she's turning, turning, turning against the curve of his cheek. This close, she can almost smell his sweat beneath his cologne, feel the stubble of his cheek against her mouth, sense the heat of him as though pressed against her skin. He's so close and she can't remember the last time she let him so near. Surely not after his voice broke, she's always managed the proper distance since then--

Her mouth is too dry when she next speaks. "And you think it isn't?"

"No," Larsa says, fingers splayed against her skin, breath hot against her hair. "That's just why playing at politics-- and life-- is more like playing with a pack of cards. And the first one to arrange the deck just so beforehand..."

His mouth brushes the pulse at her throat when he next speaks. She wonders just how long he's spent planning this.

"...Is also the one who most clearly _wins_."


End file.
